The Baron's Honourable Daughter

by Lynn Morris

  “You must understand, dearest, that Trueman is a very strict disciplinarian, and exceedingly mindful of the servants’ place. I think that the first Lady Maledon’s attitude toward the servants was very different from my own. It seems that she left all things concerning the servants up to Trueman. In many ways he believes that I interfere with his status.”

  “But she is not here, and you are,” Valeria said. “You run this household, not him. I think that he’s simply trying to regain some of his power, with all this fuss and bother about broken china and a cigar ash on the floor.”

  “Actually, I can see his point, and you should too, Valeria. In most houses the servants are required to pay for the things they break, and they accept it as one of the terms of their employment. And there should not be a cigar ash left on the floor, it means that the maids didn’t sweep thoroughly.”

  “But Mamma, should you really have to attend to such minor things? Do they actually report to you every time someone spills a cup of sugar, or if a speck of dust is on a chair?”

  “Of course they aren’t required to, but it does give Trueman such satisfaction that I allow him to do it,” Regina said lightly. “You see, darling, men can be so fragile that we must allow them their little triumphs now and then.”

  “Men,” Valeria grumbled. “If they’d just do as they’re told the world would be a much better place.”

  Regina laughed.

  * * *

  The first Earl of Maledon had had a favorite retainer, his manservant, a man named Edward Davies. When Davies retired, the earl set him up in his own public house in the village of Abbott’s Roding. To show his gratitude, Davies named the tavern after the horses in the Maledon stables, a fine bloodline of mostly black horses with distinctive white markings on their foreheads. The Black Star’d Horse had been enlarged through the years, and now it was a tavern, an eatery, and a coaching inn. It was still owned by one branch of the Davies family.

  In that year of 1712, the earl decided to sponsor a grand harvest fair for the parish. He and his countess and children dressed in their best finery, took their best carriage, and went to The Black Star’d Horse to make the announcement. They dined with the publican and his family. Then, since the parish had been alerted, the earl made a speech to the crowd gathered, and announced that in a fortnight they would have three days’ holiday to attend the fair. The announcement itself had become a holiday of a sort, because it came at the end of the long harvest. Most of the parish gathered in Abbott’s Roding to witness the Earl’s Procession.

  Now, a hundred years later, the scene was much the same in the charming village. The old half-timbered pub faced out onto the village green, which was overspread by an ancient gnarled yew tree. The public house was full, and about a hundred people were picnicking on the green. For the occasion the earl had provided bowls of punch, and fruit from the Bellegarde orchards. Two tables had been set up beneath the yew tree, and on one were four great silver bowls of Captain Radcliffe’s punch, regent’s punch, and the more sedate lemon and orange punches. The other table was riotous with grapes, pears, cherries, apples, oranges, currants, and plums.

  The villagers expected pageantry in this time-honored tradition, and the Countess of Maledon provided it for them. Leading the procession was Valeria, riding Tarquin, the perfect black star’d horse. She and her mother had very carefully chosen what they would wear. Though they saw everyone at church, this was the only time that many of the villagers and farmers would ever see the nobility in their full finery.

  Valeria told Regina and Craigie, “All of the clothes young ladies wear nowadays are so boring! Just white and bland pastels. I’d love to wear something different, something daring.”

  “If you mean you’re thinking on showing your bosom at high noon, I’d say not,” Craigie said, frowning, then asked Regina, “But my lady, what about that Turkey red velvet of yours? It’s so striking, and you’ve hardly worn it.”

  “Oh, could I?” Valeria said excitedly. “I don’t care if it’s too early for velvet, and of course I know it would never do in London. But for the Procession, it would be perfect.”

  And so Valeria was wearing the simple but queenly dress, of the color known as Turkey red, though it wasn’t actually a deep crimson. It was more of a rust red that complimented Valeria’s white skin amazingly. It was high-waisted, but instead of being a round gown it had tight gathers from the sides around the back, giving her room to ride sidesaddle. With the medium-length train it draped gracefully. The sleeves were long and close-fitting, with three layers of lace for cuffs. As it was an evening gown, the squared neck was low-cut, so she wore a fine lace tucker trimmed with pearls. Instead of kid gloves she wore lace knit mittens. Her bonnet was trimmed with fresh flowers: white and yellow and red roses, French marigolds, and Persian buttercups, with sprigs of mint leaves for greenery.

  Behind her, Regina and St. John rode in the town coach in great state. Ewan drove, dressed in his full coachman’s livery. He wore a gray suit with a slate-blue waistcoat, buff breeches, top boots, a greatcoat with three short capes at the shoulders, and a gray top hat. His impassive expression hid the fact that he was sweltering in the August sun.

  The Maledon town coach, usually used only in London, had been polished and shined to perfection. The midnight-blue lacquer shone like glass, and the brass fittings gleamed. On the doors was the Maledon coat of arms, worked in pewter and gold. Standing on the footboard behind were Ned and Royce, dressed in their full formal livery, resplendent in blue and silver, their perfect powdered queues topped by tricorn hats trimmed with swansdown.

  This year Regina had added an innovation to the Procession. Following the coach were two of the Bellegarde farm carts. They were decorated with flowers and greenery, and in them were more baskets filled with fruits. Craigie, Niall, Mrs. Banyard, Mrs. Lees, Joan, and Sophie rode in the first, with six more servants riding in the second.

  As they came into the village, the people lined the street leading to the front entrance of the pub. The glass windows of the town coach were lowered, and Regina and St. John cheerfully waved. This was the single time that the commoners were permitted to call out to the nobility, and there were many friendly greetings. “Hallo, m’lady, m’lor’—Good day to you, m’lady—Miss Segrave, Miss Segrave, ain’t you a pretty sight on this fine day!”

  When they reached The Black Star’d Horse, the carriage stopped perfectly in front of the open door. Royce ran ahead to lift Valeria down and hold Tarquin. Ned opened the carriage door and lowered the steps. Regina alighted, splendid and glowing in moss-green satin, with diamonds in her hair. St. John managed to look very dignified in a black coat with silver buttons, gray satin waistcoat, gray satin knee breeches, white stockings, and black pumps with bows.

  The crowd around them grew silent, then all the men removed their hats and bowed deeply, and the women curtsied. Mr. Davies, the publican, stepped forward and bowed. In a sonorous, ceremonial voice he said, “My lady, my lord, Miss Segrave. You do my house great honor. Welcome to the Black Star’d Horse.”

  Chapter Seven

  LETITIA, LADY HYLTON, FINISHED READING the letter and stared at the fire, deep in thought. A few raindrops spit at the window. She rose to look out at the park and the lake below. The sky was heavy and low; thunder rumbled in the distance.

  She was not a tall woman, but she carried herself so proudly that she seemed taller than she was. At forty-eight she had pure white hair that was still thick and curly. She had never been a beauty, but because of her wit and vivacity, the brightness of her blue eyes, and her mobile expression, she was still considered a handsome woman.

  She was thinking about the letter from her friend Regina Maledon. The letter had been very light in tone, relating Valeria’s activities, St. John’s antics, small homey things about Bellegarde. But the final paragraph worried Letitia.

  I do so regret that we were unable to join you at Foxden. It is such a comfortable place, and each time we’ve been there I
’ve felt so relaxed and, I must admit, a vast relief to have an interval away from the strain and cares of Bellegarde. I miss you, Letitia. Especially lately I’ve longed for the comfort of your counsel and the benefit of your wisdom. I hope that we can come visit you upon your return to Hylton Hall.

  Letitia had known Regina for twenty years, and it was the first time she had ever heard even a hint of a complaint from her. For Regina to admit that Bellegarde was placing strain and cares on her was comparable to a long dire lament from anyone else. Letitia thought that the last two sentences sounded wistful, and it pained her.

  A faint commotion sounded from the back of the house. The shooting party was returning early, and they were laughing and talking rather loudly in the gun room. In a few minutes Letitia’s son came in, followed by the butler, Fleming, who had a particularly distressed look on his face. “But my lord, your Hessians have been cleaned and polished, it won’t take a moment for me to fetch them,” he pleaded.

  Lord Hylton pulled a fat wing chair up close to the fireplace, sat down, and propped his muddy boots on the fender. “I doubt that my mother will have vapors because I’m tracking mud into the sitting room. I’ll go up and change shortly, but first I’d like a strong hot cup of tea, it’s a raw day out.” Defeated, Fleming left.

  Letitia resumed her seat on the settee across from him and said, “Those boots really are a disgrace, Alastair. Fleming’s much more upset about you being mussed than he is about you tracking in.”

  “I’m not mussed, I’m disheveled and muddy. Come to think of it, I hope Fleming doesn’t have the vapors.”

  He was not at all disheveled, though his boots were spattered with mud. His fine mane of blond hair was styled in fashionable waves and curls that took much effort to look so artless. Alastair’s face looked like a Greek statue, with a broad forehead, a high-bridged ruler-straight nose, a firm mouth, and clear eyes of an unusual gray-blue. He was a couple of inches over six feet tall, with long legs, and a well-proportioned body that was muscular but not bulky. His buckskin breeches were perfectly fitted and spotless, as were his green striped waistcoat and plain chocolate-brown coat. His intricate cravat was flawless.

  Alastair continued, “Fleming really should learn to loosen his stiff upper lip here at Foxden. I grow weary with grandeur sometimes. I like sitting by the fire in muddy boots.”

  Foxden Park was a rustic hunting lodge dating from the early eighteenth century. It was well furnished and comfortable but it wasn’t a grand manor. When the Hyltons were in attendance here they never dressed formally, and rarely had guests, only close family friends such as the Maledons. This season, since Lord Maledon had decided to stay at nearby Clayburn House, and Regina had felt that she couldn’t come to Foxden, only the family were here: Letitia, Alastair, his sister Elyse, and Elyse’s husband Lord Lydgate.

  The latter two came in then, followed by Fleming with a tea tray. Elyse was twenty-two, with glossy ash-brown hair, dark sparkling eyes, and a sprightly prettiness. Her lively manner was in complete contrast to that of her husband, Reginald, who was inevitably called Reggie. He might have been called an average, rather nondescript man but for an endearingly amiable expression and manner, much like a friendly dog’s. Letitia was amused to see that he was in his stocking feet.

  “Please note, Alastair, that Reggie’s much more considerate of the servants than are you,” she said. “He didn’t go stamping through the house in muddy boots.”

  “Mine were in much worse shape than Alastair’s,” Reggie said mournfully. “Stepped right into a great puddle. I say, Alastair, how about giving up your chair? My feet are cold.”

  “Pull up your own chair,” Alastair retorted. “I was just expressing my supreme happiness at being in this one.”

  Reggie pulled another chair up close to the fire and Elyse joined her mother on the settee. Elyse said, “Alastair, your great feet practically take up the entire fender. Move over and make room for Reggie. Fleming, please go fetch some comfortable warm slippers for my husband.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and scurried off.

  As Letitia was pouring for them she asked, “How was the shooting?”

  “Not bad, until the storm started coming in,” Alastair answered. “It’s peculiar how the birds can sense such things, they became very difficult to flush before we realized it was going to rain. Still, we managed to bag around three dozen.”

  “I even got one today, Mamma,” Elyse said enthusiastically.

  “I still don’t think it was the one you were aiming for. That poor bird was halfway across the moor when your wild shot downed it,” Alastair said.

  “I most certainly was aiming for that exact one!” Elyse said indignantly. “Just because it was a long shot doesn’t mean I wasn’t aiming.”

  “Yes, you do aim,” Alastair admitted. “You aim everywhere. If Reggie isn’t more careful to stand farther behind you he’s likely to end up shot in the posterior region.”

  “Oh, do be quiet. Brothers are so annoying,” Elyse said. “Mamma, why couldn’t you have had all girls instead?” Elyse was the only girl, with three brothers. Philip Hylton was in the Coldstream Guards, and the youngest, Robert, was at Cambridge.

  “I did try,” Letitia said dryly, “but I’m afraid your father insisted on sons. Did you see Kincannon’s party today?”

  “We did, in fact we lunched with them. Kincannon sets a fine spread even out in the field,” Alastair said with narrow amusement. “No hunk of cheese and bottle for him. There were more servants than there were sportsmen.”

  “And sportswomen,” Elyse added slyly.

  “Some of them were indeed sporting, you might say,” Reggie chortled. “I’ll say one thing about Kincannon, his parties are always the most interesting mix of guests.”

  “A motley collection of rabble, I’d call it,” Letitia sniffed. “I know one of those guests is his current mistress, that actress person.”

  With a slightly mischievous air Alastair said, “Her name is Maura Ruskin, as you well know, since you’ve seen her on the stage several times. She really is an accomplished actress.”

  “Speaking of rabble,” Letitia said heavily, “did you see Maledon?”

  “No, he and some of the others were on the south downs for the pheasant.” Alastair frowned. “Kincannon said he’s not doing much shooting, he mostly stays at the house with the ladies and drinks up all the port.”

  “I’ve had a letter from Regina today,” Letitia said tightly, “and I can tell she’s deeply distressed. Though she has the highest sense of honor and the strongest principles of anyone I’ve ever known, she’s still fragile. Her sensibilities are so delicate, she’s like a hothouse orchid, the merest careless touch can wilt her. I cannot fathom what Maledon is thinking, to treat her in such a manner!”

  “And poor Valeria,” Elyse said with some distress. “Mamma, I sat by Mrs. Purefoy at lunch, and she told me the most dreadful thing. Apparently Lord Maledon and Valeria had words, and he slapped her.”

  “What!” Letitia said with outrage. “He struck her? Mrs. Purefoy witnessed this?”

  “Yes, along with Lady Jex-Blake and several servants. And I’m afraid Lady Maledon saw it too.”

  “My poor, poor Regina,” Letitia moaned. “Did St. John see?”

  “Apparently not,” Elyse answered.

  “Thank the merciful Lord for that. Oh, I could strangle Maledon myself! You’re his nearest relation, Alastair, why don’t you try and talk to him?”

  “I’m his sixth—or fifth—cousin, I forget which, that hardly makes us close kinsmen. And I have no intention of talking to him about his personal affairs, it’s none of my business. Aside from that, it would make no difference now, the damage has already been done,” he said rather coldly.

  Letitia considered him with some concern. Alastair was a dutiful son who met all his obligations conscientiously. He was good to his family, his servants, and his tenants. But there was some deep core of reserve in him, a certain stringent self
-containment that kept him from forming attachments. Ladies pursued him relentlessly, for the Hylton family was wealthy, and aside from that he was a very handsome man. But he had never shown the slightest inclination toward marriage, for it seemed he cared nothing for any of the eligible women he’d met. No one has touched his heart, she thought with a hint of sadness. It seems so difficult for him to love. I know that he cares for his family and close friends, but he keeps himself so strictly guarded.

  “Well, then, if you won’t talk to him,” Letitia said sarcastically, “I suppose I’ll have to reconsider my plan to strangle him.”

  * * *

  A knock on the door in the middle of the night is always ominous. But loud insistent banging and shouting at three a.m., with the cold wind howling across the moors like evil banshees, can fill even the stoutest heart with dread.

  Alastair threw on his banyan and reached the door even before Fleming. When he opened it the wind flung it out of his hand to crash backward, and raked him with icy fingers. “Kincannon, come in, man, you look shattered!”

  Lord Kincannon was two years younger than Alastair, only twenty-five years of age. He was handsome in a rather feminine sort of way, with a sleepy, indolent manner. But now he looked pale, his eyes wide and staring. He stalked into the sitting room and hunched over the last embers of the dying fire. “I’m—I’m freezing,” he said shakily. “I need a brandy, Hylton.”

  By now everyone in the household had run downstairs: Letitia, Elyse, and Reggie hurried in while Fleming and the other servants huddled at the doorway.

  Alastair ordered, “Fleming, bring us some brandy. Ellen, fetch coal and stoke up this fire.” Everyone took a seat and waited in silence until Fleming returned with the brandy and the maid stoked up the fire. Kincannon tossed a tumblerful of brandy back, then held out the glass for another. Collapsing into a chair, he mumbled, “That’s better. I’ve had quite a shock.”